The sun won’t come out today. The sky is heavy. Cumilonimbus and gloomy. My skin wants to hide itself as well. Tell the body we are morning today we need to cover up. Who is to say that we are not supernovas. We light ourselves up. A black man burned alive by his own last night. The heavens are angry with us. Won’t send the day and it’s shine. We are suffering in the dark. Not an absense of light but living in the abyss of night.
The city is a closet. We are hiding between the coats. We stack and we fold into ourselves. A big bang in the streets. The sun is not here to stop us from bumping into ourselves. We shift and and we mould in the shelves. We blanket, we old. In the drain we broken but we hold on to our corners. In the street corner we habitat. We make our beds beneath the bridge. A police car has stopped at the traffic light. The policeman pulls down his window and asks what I’m doing in the street. I cringe. It stings. The questions they ask me. Cut and stripped. It drills. I stand unfinished. An incomplete sentence. I have no last name. My presence is questioned. I have no address for home. The sun has chosen to hide today. My melanin won’t let me escape. I have no place to call my own. “Mr Policeman, the streets are my home.”